Bock was standing on his hind legs, looking up at the front wall of the
cellar, in which two small iron-grated windows opened onto the sunken
area by the front door of the shop. He gave a low growl, and seemed
uneasy.

"What is it, Bock?" said Roger placidly, finishing his pipe.

Bock gave a short, sharp bark, with a curious note of protest in it.
But Roger's mind was still with Burton.

"Rats?" he said. "Aye, very likely! This is Ratisbon, old man, but
don't bark about it. Incident of the French Camp: 'Smiling, the rat
fell dead.'"

Bock paid no heed to this persiflage, but prowled the front end of the
cellar, looking upward in curious agitation. He growled again, softly.

"Shhh," said Roger gently. "Never mind the rats, Bock. Come on, we'll
stoke up the fire and go to bed. Lord, it's one o'clock."

Chapter XI

Titania Tries Reading in Bed

Aubrey, sitting at his window with the opera glasses, soon realized
that he was blind weary. Even the exalted heroics of romance are not
proof against fatigue, most potent enemy of all who do and dream. He
had had a long day, coming after the skull-smiting of the night before;
it was only the frosty air at the lifted sash that kept him at all
awake. He had fallen into a half drowse when he heard footsteps coming
down the opposite side of the street.

He had forced himself awake several times before, to watch the passage
of some harmless strollers through the innocent blackness of the
Brooklyn night, but this time it was what he sought. The man stepped
stealthily, with a certain blend of wariness and assurance. He halted
under the lamp by the bookshop door, and the glasses gave him enlarged
to Aubrey's eye. It was Weintraub, the druggist.

The front of the bookshop was now entirely dark save for a curious
little glimmer down below the pavement level. This puzzled Aubrey, but
he focussed his glasses on the door of the shop. He saw Weintraub pull
a key out of his pocket, insert it very carefully in the lock, and open
the door stealthily. Leaving the door ajar behind him, the druggist
slipped into the shop.

"What devil's business is this?" thought Aubrey angrily. "The swine
has even got a key of his own. There's no doubt about it. He and
Mifflin are working together on this job."

For a moment he was uncertain what to do. Should he run downstairs and
across the street? Then, as he hesitated, he saw a pale beam of light
over in the front lef